Once upon a time, when I was only 56, I followed a dream. I had wanted to visit Norway ever since I first met my mother’s Norwegian uncle, Peter Ringstveit, who emigrated to the U.S. in the late 1800s. Since I never met Peter’s brothers, including my grandfather Lars, Peter was my only link to the family’s Norwegian roots.

Oddly enough, Uncle Peter’s stories were rarely of Norway.

Uncle Peter told great stories, but oddly enough, his stories were rarely of Norway and his family. He focused on his life in Montana as a sheepherder on the 3,000-plus acres he had accumulated, his treks to move sheep into Yellowstone National Park for grazing and back to the plains when the seasons changed, and the harsh northern frontier of the early 1900s. When my adventurous mother was in high school in the mid-thirties, she and a friend took the train from northern Illinois to visit Uncle Pete. While he slept at a neighboring ranch, those two girls camped in the sheepherder’s wagon. The way the confirmed bachelor told it, two giggling girls had invaded his camp and he needed to go pretty far away to get any sleep.

(more…)

I’ve recently become a fan of the Mortal Muses, nine exceptional female photographers from the USA, Canada, and Europe. Their blog offers instant inspiration via daily postings of beautiful, moving, and amusing photos. Today they’ve invited me to answer the question: What Inspires You? My answer is a post that considers where inspiration comes from when I don’t feel inspired. Please visit the Mortal Muses blog and leave a comment on my guest post for your chance to win a signed copy of my book, They Only Eat Their Husbands: A Memoir of Alaskan Love, World Travel, and the Power of Running Away. (If you’d rather guarantee yourself a book, you can order one now at Ghost Road Press.)

For non-professional dancers, dancing is typically an occasional social activity, but for me it is the axis on which my whole social life turns. When I’m simply listening to music, I prefer alternative and acoustic rock, but when I dance, it’s all about swing and blues. Last weekend, I danced into another era, at a Denver event called Lindy Diversion. Swing dancers took classes all day, and danced to a live band or DJ all night — until 4:00 a.m. if they could stay awake. For those of us who dance the Lindy hop, obsession “don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”

Dance By Night from Cara Lopez Lee on Vimeo.

When I dance, it’s all about swing and blues.

I grew up with my grandmother, and she and I used to enjoy watching old movies together, especially the musicals of the 30s, 40s, and 50s: Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, Gene Kelly and anybody. Whenever the music was swing, I wanted to jump up and jitterbug, though I had no idea how. I cut my teeth on big band music by the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, and Glen Miller. My tastes later expanded to the bad-ass swing, jump-blues, and rhythm-and-blues of artists like Duke Ellington, Count Basie, and Ray Charles. My grandmother used to sing the songs of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday while doing housework. So, for me, the music of that era hits the same emotional note as the smell of Grand-mom’s homemade apple pie. It’s the soundtrack of my childhood, though it was recorded before my time.
(more…)

I’m excited to introduce you to a writer and adventurer who has witnessed a unique battle for women’s rights in Thailand, specifically, the rights of Buddhist nuns. Cat Kurtz is the author of My Heart the Sun, a non-fiction account of Buddhist Theravada nuns’ fight for the right to become bhikkunis, fully ordained Buddhist monastics.

Bhikkunis are fully ordained Theravada Buddhist monastics. These nuns were ordained in Sri Lanka.

Cat has been a witness to this Southeast Asian women’s movement and spiritual revolution since its beginnings in 2002 and she still communicates regularly with nuns in Thailand. Her hope is to keep her promise to give voice to their untold story. Here is a piece of that promise:

(more…)

The raspberry lets go of the vine with a soft tug. And another, and another. As I move down rows of bowing green bushes dangling plump rubies, the sun drills my neck with the last blast of summer. I’m reconnecting with my food, going a step farther than the farmers market, straight to the source.

Berry Patch Farms’ is backed by the Rocky Mountains, and fronted by a red barn, skittish chickens, and a truly porky pig.

Just a half hour from my Denver home, tears spring to my eyes as I consider Berry Patch Farms’ long green rows of fruits and veggies — backed by the Rocky Mountains, and fronted by a red barn, skittish chickens, and a truly porky pig. In the city, it’s easy to forget how natural this feels: gathering food from the earth.

(more…)